A Fatal Yarn Read online

  Pamela added forks, and napkins, and the cut-glass sugar bowl with its matching cream pitcher to the table setting. Bettina fetched the carton of heavy cream from the refrigerator and dribbled a bit into the cream pitcher, then she returned the carton to the refrigerator and plucked a spoon from Pamela’s silverware drawer.

  “The lunch with MacDonald was my editor’s idea,” Bettina said after coffee had been poured and they had taken their accustomed places on either side of the table. “I used to interview him all the time when he was mayor. It was my idea to invite you—because we might learn something useful that will help Roland. But here’s why my editor at the Advocate is interested in MacDonald. Arborville’s town government is in turmoil now. Arborville has never had a lieutenant mayor or a vice-mayor—so according to the bylaws, if the mayor is out of the picture, governing is left up to the town council, with the senior council member in charge. But most of the people on the council are MacDonald supporters.” Bettina paused to dig her fork into the edge of her cheese Danish. Since Pamela had already sampled hers, she took up the idea Bettina had launched.

  “I suppose the Diefenbach supporters are aghast that their leader’s agenda is to be abandoned,” she said.

  Bettina was chewing, but she nodded vigorously, the scarlet tendrils of her hair bobbing in time with the motion. “And the MacDonald supporters—and maybe MacDonald himself—are thinking that it’s only fair to let the council run things, since according to the Wendelstaff College poll, MacDonald was supposed to win anyway.”

  “The Diefenbach supporters want to hold a new election.” Bettina put her fork down and set to work sugaring her coffee and adding cream. “They want to run another ‘The Future Is Now’ candidate, a woman named Martha Cosgrove.” She stirred her coffee, now a pale mocha hue. “So I’m to lunch with MacDonald and get his take on all of this. I imagine AccessArborville is buzzing with the topic.”

  “At the moment,” Pamela said, “at least as of this morning, people were more interested in the scolding note-writer.”

  “An article in the Advocate will be good then. People need to be informed about what’s going on politically in their town.” Bettina sampled her coffee, smiled, and returned to her Danish.

  Pamela was enjoying her own Danish. The pastry’s flaky crust was crisp around the edges, yielding to a chewy interior like sweet yeast bread. Bites closer to the center melded that effect with the creamy richness of soft, sweet cheese. The coffee, bitter and black the way she liked it, was the perfect complement.

  “So,” Bettina said, “we’re to meet MacDonald at Hyler’s for lunch. Twelve thirty sharp.”

  “I hope I’ll be hungry by then.” Pamela regarded the half Danish waiting on her plate. “Speaking of the Advocate, you said you were seeing Detective Clayborn Friday?”

  “You’re thinking about the basket of eggs, aren’t you? Whether the police found them when they responded after Diefenbach was murdered.” Pamela nodded. “This week’s Advocate will already be out, but that’s the only time he could only fit me in.” Bettina gave a disgusted laugh. “I don’t know what he’s doing that keeps him so busy. He’s already pinned Diefenbach’s murder on poor Roland.”

  Pamela picked up her fork and teased off another bite of the Danish. But before she could lift it to her mouth, she let the fork clatter back onto her plate. Bettina’s eyes widened in surprise. “What is it?” she asked.

  “MacDonald could lead us to the person who left the basket of eggs on Diefenbach’s porch,” Pamela said as an extra-loud thump of her heart acknowledged how exciting was this realization.

  “He could?” A slight frown replaced the surprised expression.

  “One of the complaints the Diefenbach supporters had about MacDonald was that he refused to crack down on the person in town who has the rooster. So he must know the person who has the rooster—a pal of his even. And why would a person have a rooster if he, or she, didn’t also have hens? Hens that lay eggs?”

  “Yes!” Bettina slapped the table with both hands. The forks jingled against the china plates. “I’ll ask him about the rooster. I’ll work it in—the question makes perfect sense, for my article.”

  “It does.” Pamela nodded. “And the answer could be just the lead we’re looking for. We won’t be able to follow up any further with Haven until Saturday, but meanwhile . . .”

  She returned to her Danish with new enthusiasm. Lunchtime was still a few hours away.

  Chapter 17

  “Bettina!” A rumpled looking man rose from a table near the big window that allowed patrons of Hyler’s to keep tabs on the passing scene as they ate. It was Brandon MacDonald, in jeans and a fleece pullover zipped part-way up, with a T-shirt showing in the open V. The bit of logo that was visible suggested that the shirt alluded to a brand of beer.

  Brandon MacDonald reached out a welcoming arm and guided Bettina toward a chair. “I’ve missed our chats,” he said, “and seeing my name and picture in the Advocate every week.” His gaze shifted from Bettina to Pamela. “You’ve brought a friend.”

  Bettina was still standing. She turned, drew Pamela closer, and said, “My friend and neighbor, Pamela Paterson.”

  “I didn’t quite catch the name.” MacDonald leaned toward Bettina and cupped a hand around the ear that faced her.

  “Pamela Paterson,” Bettina repeated, raising her voice above the lunchtime din.

  MacDonald lowered his hand from his ear and smiled at Pamela. “You look familiar, Pam. Don’t tell me”—he snapped his fingers a few times—“the reception. You were at the reception for our dearly departed Diefenbach!”

  “That’s right.” Pamela mustered her social smile.

  “I’m glad you could join us. Shall we sit down?” Brandon MacDonald accompanied the suggestion with an expansive gesture that included pulling out a chair for Bettina and then one for Pamela. He waited until they were both settled before lowering himself back into his own chair.

  Pamela had stopped at the Co-Op on her way to Hyler’s, and she carried a canvas shopping bag containing two pounds of ground beef, half a dozen potatoes, and a pint of milk. She took the seat across from MacDonald and tucked the bag and her umbrella under her chair.

  Despite the fact that they’d arrived when the restaurant was at its busiest, a server appeared the instant they had taken their seats, the middle-aged woman who had worked at Hyler’s forever. MacDonald had held court at Hyler’s throughout his many terms as mayor, and apparently the fact that he was no longer mayor hadn’t diminished the staff’s attentiveness.

  “How’re you doing, Bran?” the server asked. “Finding ways to keep busy?” She held three of the oversize menus that were a feature of Hyler’s.

  “Busy as I want to be,” MacDonald responded. “Not as busy as you, I bet.” He reached out a hand and in a moment they were each studying a menu.

  “I’m thinking tuna melt.” Bettina’s eyes appeared over the top edge of her menu. “And a vanilla shake.” Pamela agreed that a tuna melt sounded like an appealing choice, but MacDonald was still studying his menu when the server returned. With a genial laugh, he stabbed a finger at the menu murmuring “Eeny meeny miny moe” and announced that he would have a tuna melt too.

  “So,” he said as the server retreated, “the Advocate is wondering what I think about the current state of things political in our fair town?”

  “I’m sure our readership would like to know your views.” Bettina accompanied the statement with a flirtatious wink.

  “Am I glad Diefenbach is out of the way?” MacDonald rested his elbows on the table and knit his fingers together. He frowned as if formulating an answer to a question he had never considered before. Then he pounded the table with both fists, causing a couple at a neighboring table to aim startled glances his way. “Yes!” he said at last. “I was born in Arborville and I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t want to see it become another River Ridge.”

  River Ridge was a nearby town, right on the edge of the
Hudson, where high rises had begun to sprout, snarling traffic and turning a once-charming community into a bedroom for Manhattan commuters.

  “I actually hated the guy,” he went on. Then he looked around in a jokingly furtive way. “Is it too soon after the funeral to admit that?”

  “What do you think of Martha Cosgrove’s chances?” Bettina asked. “If there’s a special election, that is.”

  “There won’t be a special election.” MacDonald folded his arms across his ample chest. “The town council would have to agree and they won’t. The rabble rousers can raise all the rabble they want but they’re just going to have to wait four years.”

  The milkshakes arrived then, in tall glasses dewy with condensation and crowned with bubbly froth. The server lingered at the table after she set them down. “Are people pestering you?” she asked MacDonald.

  “What’s that again?” MacDonald swiveled his head to look up at the server.

  “Are people pestering you?” She repeated it louder. “Nosy people? Being that you live right next door to where Diefenbach lived?”

  “Not so much.” MacDonald shrugged.

  “But the police must have had a lot of questions. Were you one of the neighbors who said they heard shouting? Before”—she paused and shuddered—“it happened?”

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” MacDonald said with a decisive headshake. “Not a thing.”

  “Lucky, I guess,” the server commented as she turned to go. “I’d have nightmares. Tuna melts coming right up.”

  “Were you at home after all?” Pamela blurted. “Not out with your friends?” Then she grimaced as she realized she had only thought MacDonald wasn’t at home at nine p.m. because of something Wilfred had said—that MacDonald usually joined other members of the historical society for a few beers after the Monday night meetings.

  Bettina took a long sip from her straw, leaving a smudge of her bright lipstick behind. She looked up from her milkshake and mirrored Pamela’s grimace.

  But MacDonald didn’t seem to notice that the question implied more knowledge of his doings than a woman he had just met could realistically have. “I thought I was getting a cold,” he said. “Change in the weather, I guess.” He laughed. “Too bad too. Could have stayed out till the cows came home. My wife’s been at her sister’s the past couple weeks.”

  The server had returned, managing to deliver all three platters in one trip. She settled each onto its paper placemat and went on her way again with a cheery “Enjoy it!”

  As MacDonald contemplated his lunch, Bettina stole a questioning glance at Pamela. In response to Pamela’s answering nod, Bettina mouthed, “No alibi after all.” Then she quickly added, in a voice designed to carry to MacDonald’s ears, “This looks delicious!”

  It did indeed. The bread, glowing with a buttery sheen, had been grilled to a perfect shade of golden brown. Tuna salad, creamy with mayonnaise and streaked with melted cheese, spilled from the gap between the upper and lower slices. Tucked alongside each sandwich was a pickle spear, pale greenish yellow with a dark green strip of peel.

  They addressed their meal in silence for a few minutes, tackling the sandwiches with forks and sipping their milkshakes.

  “You said you could have stayed out till the cows came home,” Bettina observed after a bit.

  “What’s that again?” MacDonald looked at Bettina, fork in hand.

  “You said you could have stayed out till the cows came home. I guess you know that in some circles you’re referred to as ‘Old MacDonald.’ ” Bettina added a smile flirtatious enough to imply that she herself couldn’t imagine anyone applying the word “old” to the man sitting next to her.

  But the flattery wasn’t needed. MacDonald let out a boisterous laugh and brayed “E-I-E-I-O,” provoking another round of startled glances from the couple at the neighboring table. “That’s me,” he said cheerfully, “Old MacDonald and proud of it. Like I said, I don’t want Arborville to turn into River Ridge, at least not in my lifetime.”

  “There’s a rooster . . .” Bettina let the sentence trail off.

  “Indeed there is.” MacDonald pounded the table, with just one fist this time, since the other hand was occupied holding a fork. “And a very fine rooster it is. I was proud to be that rooster’s mayor.”

  “The owner is a friend then . . .” Bettina again let the sentence trail off.

  “Darn right! My good pal Jack Delaney. Jack of all trades, master of none.” MacDonald returned to his sandwich then. He carved off a huge bite with the edge of his fork and conveyed it to his mouth oblivious of the fact that the forkful trailed a long string of melted cheese and a gobbet of tuna salad. The tuna salad remained behind on his chin, and as he chewed he lifted his napkin from his lap and dabbed it away.

  He continued to work on the sandwich until nothing was left, interspersing forkfuls of tuna melt with bites from the pickle. Pamela and Bettina had returned to their sandwiches as well. Pamela was just savoring the last toasty morsel of hers, enjoying the contrast between the sharp cheese and the mild creaminess of the tuna salad, when MacDonald deposited the stem-end of his pickle on his platter, pushed the platter away, and spoke again.

  “Yeah, Jack of all trades, master of none,” he repeated, as if he’d been ruminating on this theme as he finished his meal. “He gets by okay though—I’ll say that for him. Never had a real job in his life as far as I know, but he does handyman work here and there, and lives off the land.”

  “Where does he live?” Bettina asked, in tone that suggested she was just making conversation.

  “Up by the community gardens,” MacDonald said. “At the end of that road that kind of trails off where the gardens start. It’s an old house, just a bungalow really. Inherited it from his parents. He’s a lifelong Arborvillian too.”

  The server approached then. Pamela slurped the last sweet sips of her milkshake and relinquished the glass as the server began to clear away. MacDonald leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh. “My treat, ladies,” he said with a genial smile. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  * * *

  “You’ll take a ride home, I hope.” Bettina and Pamela had just parted from MacDonald and were lingering on the sidewalk outside Hyler’s. “I can’t believe you came out on foot like that in the rain. Walking everywhere in good weather is one thing, but—”

  “It wasn’t raining when I came out,” Pamela said. “In fact it was already starting to clear up. And now look.” She tilted her head and gazed toward the east, over the shop fronts ranged along the opposite side of Arborville Avenue.

  The roofline was silhouetted against a strip of blue sky. Overhead the blue was streaked with filmy wisps of gray that trailed the storm’s retreat. To the west a pale, chilly sun blazed through a break where lingering clouds still massed.

  Pamela gave her friend a fond smile. “I will take a ride though. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Bettina led the way through the narrow passageway that connected Arborville Avenue with the parking lot shared by the municipal complex, library included, and the town park. She stepped smartly around the few lingering puddles in her yellow rubber booties, Pamela following, and soon they were both settled in the front seat of Bettina’s faithful Toyota.

  “He doesn’t have an alibi after all,” Bettina said, jingling her keys.

  “And he does have a motive,” Pamela added. “But we knew that.”

  “He’s such a nice man though.” Bettina pursed her lips.

  “He did seem nice,” Pamela agreed. She thought for a minute. Bettina’s car faced the park. A rambunctious dog was frisking on the wet grass. “And if he really did it, why would he be so open about the fact that he was home, right next door to Diefenbach, around the time that the murder happened?”

  “He must have told the police that too,” Bettina said. “And they must have believed him, even though his wife was away so there’s nobody to vouch that he didn’t leave his own house.”

  “He said he d
idn’t hear anything. That was weird. But then, he doesn’t seem to hear too well in general.”

  “Hyler’s at lunchtime is very noisy,” Bettina pointed out. She slipped her key into the ignition and with a twist of her fingers the car chugged to life. But Pamela was still thinking.

  “If he felt like he had to prove his innocence, wouldn’t he say he did hear something—even build it up?” she said. “Maybe say he heard the other voice too, maybe even say it was a woman’s voice?”

  Bettina backed out of the parking space and aimed the Toyota toward the exit that ran along the side of the library.

  “Jack Delaney’s probably at home now,” Pamela said.

  Bettina lifted a hand from the steering wheel to consult her pretty gold watch. “Drat!” she exclaimed. “I promised to watch the Arborville grandchildren this afternoon and I have to be there at two.”

  “First thing tomorrow?”

  “Ten a.m.” Bettina nodded. “I’ll pick you up.” She turned left and then right and in a few moments they were speeding south on Arborville Avenue.

  “He and MacDonald could be in on it together,” Pamela commented as Bettina slowed to make another turn. They had reached the stately brick apartment building that marked the corner of Orchard Street. “Linked by a vision of preserving the old Arborville.”

  “With a rooster,” Bettina added. “And probably hens. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  They had reached Pamela’s driveway. “I’m making two meatloaves tonight,” Pamela said as she lifted her canvas grocery bag and umbrella from the floor. “And lots of scalloped potatoes. I’ll divide them between two casseroles. And we’ll drop a meatloaf and some scalloped potatoes off for Melanie and Roland on our way to see Jack Delaney.”